Thoughts About Senegal.
Afterthoughts from a week in paradise.
It’s been 15 years since Ibrahima first stepped foot into our lives, but I remember the day he walked into my parents’ house like it was yesterday. It was a gloomy evening in the winter of 2009. The fog was thick, and the air moist. I was sitting on our blue Alcantara couch with my new teacup Chihuahua puppy named Gucci. Something was playing on TV, and I was unaware of how my life was going to change shortly after.
All of a sudden, my father opened the front door accompanied by this lanky African kid who had just arrived from Senegal and spoke no Italian. He announced Ibra was going to live with us.
My mom rushed to the door to welcome them both. In a sophisticated French accent, she tried to make the young teenager - he had barely turned 14 - feel at ease. Understandably, Ibrahima was confused and disoriented. He had just traveled to a new continent where the weather was horrible, and people spoke a different language. He now found himself in a different home with a new family, his life uprooted from the neighborhood of Ouakam, Dakar, where he had been spending the first decade and a half of his life.
The stars had something different planned for this kid, though. He was to become a football star and, unfortunately, at the time, that couldn’t happen on the dusty streets that shaped his skills and finesse of the game. For me, on the other hand, a new sibling was added to the people I had to share my space with. Now, not only did I have an older sister to contend with, but I also had a younger brother. Little did I know, though, that our bond would grow fond, and he’d be one of the best gifts football has ever given me.
As Ibrahima landed in Italy from one of the hottest countries on earth in the middle of winter, I remember my mother had prepared some of my father’s old clothes for him. Jackets, jeans, knit sweaters that she had kept through the years so that he could get through the harshest days as he had walked in wearing only shorts and a lightweight sweater.
A few weeks after his arrival and his residency papers had cleared, Ibrahima temporarily moved out of our home to settle in the boarding house where Inter FC accommodated players who were still underage. The next time I would see him was during the Christmas break.
To properly settle him into his new Italian life and make him feel an integral part of our family, my mother decided to take him shopping so that they could choose his Christmas gift together. They picked a red Moncler coat that fit him better than the loose clothes that she had originally given him. By this time, only a month later, Ibrahima had started picking up some Italian and also gained some extra muscle following his enrollment in school and assimilation into Inter’s strict training schedule.
A promising young midfielder, Ibrahima Mbaye was handpicked by Mourinho during an international tournament where some of the best youth football academies in the world faced each other in Belgium (if I am not mistaken). At the time, he was still only 13, but his fine skills shone through the crowd, charming the Portuguese manager who picked up the phone and called his coach, former Benfica player Luis Norton De Matos, demanding to have this kid over at Inter. Luis then called my father, who arranged Ibra’s transfer to Italy. Ibrahima Mbaye’s career started.
I will leave the details of how and why he became my brother for another time. However, as I have just landed back from a week in Senegal, I feel compelled to share a bunch of images and thoughts about this emotionally-charged trip.
First of all, Senegal is nothing like I could ever imagine. The colors of the flag truly reflect the hues and nuances of this incredible place. Senegal is actually red and yellow with a hint of green here and there. It’s hot and chaotic but in a pleasant way. There are rams and white cows laying around every corner, living in harmony with the villagers. Mornings are sleepy, nights are long. Kids run around in packs, football under one arm. Everybody is wearing football jerseys, not because they are necessarily PSG fans, Man U fans, or Juventus fans, but because that’s all the street-side boutiques sell.
An endless number of beautiful women walk around wrapped in intricately hand-dyed fabrics—pink, blue, acid green, you name it. Girls have perfectly braided hair; often they sport kaleidoscopic beads on the ends. Young men train on the beach at any time of the day—they run, they jump, they train their strength. The air is sweet, it smells like mango and madd. Sometimes it can be pungent, like rotting fish under the sun, but it adds to the charm. It makes your nose curl with a smile.
There are plenty of artisans and artists with superb skills. They carve wood to make beautiful sculptures, they paint colorful pictures, and they weld iron by hand. It’s hard to concentrate on one of these things as street vendors approach you to sell peanuts, baobab cookies, bracelets, or even pillows. For a Westerner like me, things are equally absurd and fascinating at the same time. The hazy atmosphere made me feel like I was living in a dream.
The beaches are huge. The water is freezing cold. The boats are exquisitely painted by their owners. The highway is packed. People ride scooters without helmets, and sometimes a horse and carriage are the vehicles you pass. Everything is so different and unique in its own way. Ginger juice is all I drank, and I learned that Baobabs make fruits. They are delicious too. I cannot forget to mention bissap—or karkadé—a delicious flower that is turned into a drink or yummy jam to spread on your croissant.
The Senegalese are proud people. They know their rich history, and they aren’t afraid to say it. They advocate for the universal unity of all Afro-descendants. Those who were uprooted from their soil are welcome to come back at any time. They are upbeat and jolly, welcoming and warm. They truly embody the spirit of Teranga.
While a week wasn’t nearly enough to visit everything that this incredible country has to offer, I will forever be grateful to my brother for showing me where he came from and fully immersing me in the culture of his country.
Sharing is caring:
The work of Baye Ndiaga Diouf.
Madd, a delicious fruit I had the chance to discover in Saly. It tastes like mango with loads of lime juice.
Did you know that football isn’t Senegal’s number one sport? LAAMB is!
The history of Touba.
Senegal’s most famous contemporary artist, Wally Seck.
Beautiful words from a beautiful trip.